For six months, Victoria breastfed him.
Sometimes it took half of his sandwich.
Sometimes it was all.
She once handed him a small purse of pretzels, which her mother put next to an orange, then lied about throwing them in a puddle.
As it got cooler, she kept the exchanges secret for a few minutes before the staff noticed someone had disappeared from the cafe.
It became a ritual intertwined with timekeeping and silence.
He was standing by the fence.
She came with food.
None of them exaggerated the moment, perhaps because they both understood that for hungry people help is too valuable to overestimate it.
That gesture cost her more than anyone could have imagined.
In January, Victoria’s mother, Laverne, noticed how often her daughter was coming home hungry and bewildered.
One evening, Victoria almost passed out when she was helping to fold laundry.
Laverne sat her down at a small kitchen table and asked what was going on.
Victoria tried to lie.
Then she started crying.
Then he told the truth.
Laverne kept her eyes closed for a long time.
Isaiah later imagined the moment in a thousand different ways, constantly fearing that Victoria had been punished because of him.
But it didn’t happen.
Laverne was exhausted, penniless, and terrified of every bill he came to, but when she understood, something softer appeared on her face.
The next morning, he made two smaller sandwiches instead of one big one.
He added more bread wherever he could.
He’s missed breakfast more than once.
Victoria remembered that, too.
